"Because he was born on the cusp between Cancer and Leo—which is to say, drawn on one side to the hermit’s cave, on the other to centerstage—he both craved the familiarity of a private, personal domestic space and loathed the idea of being fettered by permanence or possession. At least astrologers would attribute the ambivalence to his natal location. Someone else might point out that it was simply an acute microcosmic reflection of the fundamental nature of the universe."
Tom Robbins

Sunday, June 17, 2007

trauma

Okay, so I've been trying to post for a week now, but I'm babysitting my nieces (4 yrs and 9-months) at my sister's house in BF, South Carolina, and every time I sit down to write, somebody poops.

I'm unbelievably tired, inhumanly tired, catastrophically tired. I haven't brushed my hair in days, I had, er, effluvia, from several sources on my pajamas the other day and didn't even realize it until nearly 12:00 (and I was still wearing them), and I may have cracked a Miller Lite this morning by 8 am. But the good news is that both of them are still alive!

However, I may not be. It just isn't possible to look this bad and not be dead.

Let me tell you, my ovaries are withering, people. WITHERING! My parents came up to visit me today for a Father's Day Picnic, which really meant, "Help me! I can't concentrate on other people's needs for this many hours per day without losing my shit! Oh, and bring food." And like kind and giving parents, they came. I told them that I hope they enjoyed playing with the only grandchildren they are likely to have, so there.

It really has been fun apart from the exhaustion bit. I've gotten to go on a slip-n-slide, which was a whole new experience now that I have hit 30 and have flying squirrel arms to give me a little added lift. Beanie and I made the World's Messiest Cupcakes and a King Granddaddy crown for her Granddaddy. And we've played with glue and dinosaurs and play dough and had a tea party with Real Tea (decaf, do you think I'm insane?). And oh sweet blissful cracker sandwich, I've gotten to watch The Sound of Music, which I not so secretly love...like when Mother Superior sings Climb Every Mountain, I get all goosebumpy and want to go climb an Alp and spin around with cute gamine hair and make out with the hot Captain like a banshee. Ahhh...that Maria is a minx.

But I confess I find the nightly "How many more bites do I have to eat?" mindnumbingly tedious, partially because it used to irritate me so much to hear my parents nag me to sit up and use a fork and eat your spinach, dammitohell! And saying it myself is like scratching my own nails down the chalkboard. And the whining...oh my god, I just can't stand that tone. She could be begging me for another spoonful of spinach and offering me a million dollars and I would still give her a time out. And the baby, as scrumptiously cute as she is, and named after me besides...she is going to give me the vapors. Every time I turn my back, she has jammed something down her throat to choke on. I vaccuum the playroom every day, yet her sister, who can sack a room more efficiently than any Hun or Visigoth, is immediately in there tossing beads and leaves and sequins and feathers and those goddamned Dora stickers (curse you, Dora! I hope Shackleton cuts your head off!) and play dough and everything else on the floor. It's like the husband in that Julia Roberts movie that drags her around the house beating her for not lining up the tinned fruit properly. That's me, with Baby, the cleaning nazi.

Oh, and let's not forget the Code Brown last night. Any of you with children...you know what I'm talking about. Don't you. Mmmhmmm...you're laughing.

A Code Brown is when the cute little pink monkey you've been allowing to crawl around noodie patootie after her bath suddenly poops all over the place and then crawls about it in it. I was so tempted to take her outside and hose her off...I mean, hell, she ain't mine. I didn't incubate her. But I didn't. So see, I really should be up for the Best Aunt of the Year Award. It's mine and I demand a trophy. And maybe a fabulous new car, because that was a LOT of poop.

19 comments:

Anne
said...

The best thing about being a parent (aside from the poop - elchh!) is that you are lucky and start out gradually. With only one. And they slowly grow. And you can train them (much like a puppy) to do the things you hope that they'll mostly do.

Luckily, you don't get them both at the same time...at different ages. That is reserved souly for you aunts who so graciously give us a needed break and DEFINITELY deserve the Golden Award for being fantastic Aunts.

And one hint...never, I mean never let them go with out a diaper for more than, say, 2 minutes. But you probably know that now.

Have a huge drink - you'll feel better. Not to much though, you want to be able to sleep through the night and be rested for tomorrow when it starts again.

CODE BROWN; yep Damian and I have seen it. I don't think I'll ever forget Damian's reaction, puts his hands in the air, screaming whilst running away!!! It's put us off having kids for at least 5 years.